Bertie and the Christmas Tree
It’s almost too much for one man, being the Prince of Wales AND the son of Father Christmas. In case this confuses you, I’d better explain. My Papa, the late Prince Albert of blessed memory, is credited with inventing Christmas as we know it. He is supposed to have introduced the Christmas tree (a German tradition) to Britain, started the practice of sending cards and — for all I know — served up the first plum pudding. Never mind that this is absolute bunkum. People believe it and who am I to stand in the way of public opinion?
The true facts, if you want them, are that a Christmas tree was first put up at Windsor by my great-grandmother, Queen Charlotte (of Mecklenburg-Strelitz), as early as 1800, and my Mama’s childhood Christmases were never without a decorated tree. It was only thanks to a popular periodical, the Illustrated London News, that our family custom was made public in 1848 and my parents were depicted standing beside a fine tree decked with glass ornaments. My father was no fool. The year in question had been an absolute stinker for royalty, with republicanism rearing its odious head all over Europe, so it did no harm to show ourselves in a good light. Decent British sentiment was wooed by Papa and it became de rigeur to dig up a spruce, bring it into the home and cover it with tinsel and trinkets. Truth to tell, Papa was tickled pink at being the man who invented Christmas. He started presenting trees to all and sundry, including the regiments. If you’re a royal and revolution is in the wind it’s no bad thing to keep the army on your side.
From that time, the festive season fizzed like a sherbert drink. “A most dear, happy time,” Mama called it. We royals were well used to exchanging gifts and rewarding the servants, and it now extended to the nation at large. Suddenly carol-singing was all the rage. And thanks to the penny post, the practice of sending greetings cards became a universal custom, if not a duty.
I was a mere child when all this happened and a callow youth when the unthinkable burst upon us and Papa caught a dreadful chill and joined the angels. As fate would have it, his passing occurred just before Christmas, on December 14th, 1861. I shan’t dwell on this tragedy except to remark that Christmases from that year on were tinged with sadness. As a family, we couldn’t think about saluting the happy morn until the calendar had passed what Mama always spoke of as “the dreadful fourteenth”. So you see, dear reader, we would wake up on the fifteenth and discover we had ten days in which to prepare. I mention this as a prelude to my account of the great crime of Christmas, 1890.
It all started most innocently.
“Bertie,” my dear wife Alexandra said in her most governessy tone, “you’d better not lie there all morning. Ten days from now it will be Christmas and we’ve done nothing about it.”
I don’t think I answered. I had much else on my mind at the end of 1890, not least the Queen’s displeasure at my involvement in what was termed the Baccarat Scandal.
“Bertie, you’re awake. I can see. It’s no use closing your eyes and wheezing like a grampus. That won’t make it go away. What are we going to do about presents for the courtiers and servants?”
I sighed and opened my eyes. “The usual. Lockets and chains for the ladies and pearl studs for the gentlemen. Books for the governesses. A framed picture of you and me for everyone else.”
“Yes, but not one of these items is ordered yet.”
“Francis Knollys can attend to it.”
“But you must tell him today. And we can’t ask Francis to write the Christmas cards. That’s a job for you and me, as well as presents for the children and decorations for the tree.” Her voice slipped up an octave, her vocal cords quavering with distress. “The tree, Bertie! We haven’t even got a tree.”
“My dear Alix,” I said, reaching for an extra pillow and sitting up in bed, “Sandringham is eight thousand acres with about a million trees. If the estate manager can’t find a decent spruce among them he’ll get his pearl stud from me in the place where he least wants it.”
“There’s no need for vulgarity, Bertie. It’s got to be a tall tree.”
“And it shall be. What happened to last year’s?”
A question I should never have asked.
Her eyes filled with tears. “It died, poor thing. It scattered needles all over the ballroom. I have my suspicion that it had no root, that some unthinking person sawed the trunk at the base and thrust it into the tub.”
“Iniquitous.”
“Poor tree. They’re living things, Bertie. Make sure such an act of cruelty is not repeated this year. Tell them they must dig up the roots as well and find a really large tub to plant it in and keep the soil moist. When Christmas is over we’ll plant the living tree outside again.”
“What a splendid idea,” I said, and added a slight evasion. “I can’t think who sanctioned the murder of last year’s tree.”
She gave me a look and said, “I’ll choose the menu for the Christmas dinner.”
“Whitstable oysters,” I said.
“Bertie, oysters aren’t traditional.”
“What do you mean? There’s an R in the month.”
“But the rest of us want roast goose.”
“So do I. Roast goose and oysters.”
“Very well. That’s your treat settled. And you must think up some treats for the children. A magic lantern show.”
“They’re children no more,” I said. “The youngest is sixteen and Eddy is twenty-six.”
“Well, I want the magic lantern,” she said, practically stamping her little foot. Christmas was definitely coming.
The magic lantern was my annual entertainment for the family and they knew the slides by heart. We would drape a large bedsheet between two sets of antlers and project the pictures onto it. They were mostly scenes of Scotland, about seventy in all, except for the last, which was the climax of the show, a star that altered shape several times as I cranked a little handle. This required me to stoop over the machine and one year my beard caught fire, causing more gaiety than any of the Scottish scenes.
After a hearty breakfast I summoned my long-serving secretary, Sir Francis Knollys, and arranged for the keepsakes to be ordered by telegraph from my usual jeweller, Mr Garrard, of the Haymarket. He’s a fortunate fellow, for we are obliged to keep a large retinue at Sandringham. As well as the pins and lockets, I thoughtfully ordered a gift for Alix of a large silver inkstand, which I knew she would adore. I believe the bill for everything was in excess of six hundred pounds. I’ve always lived beyond my means, but if the nation wants an heir presumptive, then it must allow him to be bounteous, I say. Garrard wired back promising to deliver the articles in presentation boxes by December 23rd, just time to wrap them and write labels on each one.
Next, I spoke to Hammond, my estate manager. The main tree, I said, should be at least twenty feet high and healthy.
“I’ll pick it myself, your Royal Highness,” he said. “I know exactly where to go. In fact, I’ll fell it myself as well.”
“No, no, no, no, no,” I said. “Felling won’t do at all.”
“But last year you said—”
“That was last year. The Princess has a sentimental regard for trees and she insists that we — that is to say you — dig the whole thing from the ground, roots and all, and plant it in a tub so that it will survive the experience.”
“With respect, sir, the ground’s awfully hard from the frosts.”
“With respect, Hammond, you’ll have to dig awfully hard.”
“As you wish, sir.”
“No. As I command.”
I ordered a search for the magic lantern. It always goes missing. In a house as large as Sandringham there are hundreds of cupboards. The show wouldn’t be until Christmas afternoon, but I like to have a rehearsal and make sure the slides are the right way up. You wouldn’t believe the catcalls when I get one wrong. Some of my family think they can get away with bad behaviour in the dark. I don’t know where they get it from.